The elevator chimed as it reached the third floor.

The doors slid open.

The hallway was dark.

The emergency lights were flickering.

I stepped out of the elevator, my heart in my throat.

At the far end of the corridor, near the neonatal unit, the double doors were slightly ajar.

A small, silver object was wedged in the frame to keep them from locking.

It was my mother’s silver hair clip.

I pulled the silver hair clip from the door frame.

The metal was cold against my palm.

It was the floral clasp she wore every Sunday.

The heavy double doors creaked as they swung shut behind me.

I stood in the dim corridor of the neonatal intensive care unit.

The floor was polished linoleum, reflecting the dull green glow of the exit signs.

To my left, the nurse’s station was completely deserted.

A single computer monitor flickered on the desk, casting blue light across empty chairs.

I took a step forward, my sneakers squeaking softly on the floor.

I stopped and held my breath.

The silence in the ward was thick, broken only by the rhythmic beep of monitors.